Wednesday, June 06, 2018
The time comes when you count the names—whether
dim or flaming in the head’s dark, or whether
In stone cut, time-crumbling or moss-glutted.
You count the names to reconstruct yourself.
But a face remembered may blur, even as you stare
At a headstone. Or sometimes a face, as though from air,
Will stare at you with a boyish smile—but, not
Stone-moored, blows away like dandelion fuzz.
It is very disturbing. It is as though you were
The idiot boy who ventures out on pond-ice
Too thin and hears here—hears there—the creak
And crackling spread. That is the sound Reality
Makes as it gives beneath your metaphysical
Poundage. Memory dies. Or lies. Time
Is a wind that never shifts air. Pray only
That, in the midst of selfishness, some
Small act of careless kindness, half-unconscious, some
Unwitting smile or brush of lips, may glow
In some other mind’s dark that’s lost your name, but stumbles
Upon that momentary Eternity.
Monday, April 30, 2018
From: A Solo In Tom-Toms - Gene Fowler
Such a small and homely and peasant-like thing
seems a cup of coffee.
Still, some of us know that nothing really is small
and nothing actually large, but of an entity,
and of no dimensions whatsoever except as our
imaginations make it seem large or small.
For everything is one thing and of one thing.
And the thing is not a thing at all, but an idea.
Perhaps this idea is both the creator and the created,
Timeless, endless, and inscrutable.
Friday, March 30, 2018
Harvey Ellis - Harvey Ellis
my ancestors surround me
like walls of a canyon
their ideas drift over me
like breezes at sunset
we gather sticks
and make settlements
what we do is only partly
and partly continuation
down through the chromosomes
my baby sleeps behind me
stirring in the night
for the touch
that lets him continue
he is arranging
in his small form the furniture
and windows of his home
it will be a lot like mine
it will be a lot like theirs
Friday, March 16, 2018
Translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid
It was not I who begot you. It was the dead—
my father, and his father, and their forebears,
all those who through a labyrinth of loves
descend from Adam and the desert wastes
of Cain and Abel, in a dawn so ancient
it has become mythology by now,
to arrive, blood and marrow, at this day
in the future, in which I now beget you.
I feed their multitudes. They are who we are,
and you among us, you and the the sons to come
that you will beget. The latest in the line
and in red Adam’s line. I too am those others.
Eternity is present in the things
of time and its impatient happenings
Monday, January 29, 2018
I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house, it is ready waiting.
Unused unless by some guest in a a twelvemonth, who hardly suspects
Its later purpose. I often regard it,
With neither dislike nor desire; rather with both, so equaled
That they kill each other and a crystalline interest
Remains alone. We are safe to finish what we have to finish,
And then it will sound rather like music
When the patient daemon behind the screen of sea-rock and sky
Thrumps with his staff, and calls thrice: “Come, Jeffers
Sunday, December 24, 2017
My son brings me a stone and asks
which star it fell from,
he is serious
and so I must be careful, even though
I know he will place it
among those things that will leave him
someday, and he
will go on gathering. For this
is one of those moments
that turns suddenly towards you, opening
as it turns, as if for a moment
we paused on the edge
of a heart beat, conscious
of the fear that runs beside us
and how lovely it is to be with each other
in the long resilient mornings.
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Poema by Maria Teresa Horta
Translated from the Portuguese by Lesley Saunders
I let him come.
He sneaks on tiptoe
right up to my ear;
under its ribs my heart
as the excitement mounts:
first the forest appears,
then the woodland-sequel,
more mist than snow to the touch –
from the new poem’s
very first line the paper sucks up
and an ugliness steals in,
a cunning hungry thing
crouching there incognito,
pretending to be tame and yet so wolfish
that he’s the kernel of light
and then the noise of its cracking;
he’s lithe on the path,
doubling back on himself,
running with the pack, loping alone;
pussy-footing through the night
he trails moonlight behind him
like a mink coat.
I feel him when the hairs on my skin
lift, and in the delicious dizziness
of my private pulse –
in the midst of my writing, in my dream-life,
I slip all his clothes slowly off
and slide him down beside me.